So Tired
by A. Cardea
Summary: Devil's Trap Tag. Dean wakes to find that life is never a breeze, that sometimes the best of us crumble from the simpliest things.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Don't own anything:(

**Warnings: **Nothing as far…just a fair bit of cussing!

oOoOoOo

The strong smell of anti-bacterial wash reached his nostrils and he breathed it in, welcoming anything that signalled another few years of life. His eyes glued shut with sleep, he tried to make do with his sludgy hearing, trying to determine what that beeping noise was and who or what was shrieking ridiculously in the not-too-far-away background.

Lips parting slightly, he heard a scuffle as he groaned softly, his arm moving sluggishly to lie protectively over his chest, where a throbbing sensation was annoying him to no ends. His other arm felt heavy, so he let it lie by him.

"Dean?"

His lips met each other again as he pondered this word and more importantly, pondered the voice that had reached to him.

Dean? Yes, that was him, wasn't it? It was either that or he had been calling himself the wrong name for the past twenty-six years and _that _would be embarrassing. But the voice was just so troubling. It was still distorted, even as it replayed over and over in his head, but despite all that, he would never forget that voice. It was a voice that pulled him back from the darkness multiple times, pulled him from despair and desperation, just because it could.

"S…Sam…my?" Dean knew he sounded pathetic, he sounded dead, yet alive at the same time. But he needed to know if he was right.

There was a sigh that was warm and calming to Dean's ears and Dean so desperately wanted to open his eyes, just so he could see the wisps of breath escape Sam's lips, to know that the youngest Winchester was still with him, that this wasn't some wonderful dream.

"Yeah, Dean."

To Dean, the response that came to him sounded suspiciously like a strangled sob, but nevertheless, he was glad to hear it.

"Sammy…"

It was the only word he could muster at the moment, but all be damned, he'd use it again and again if necessary.

He felt a hand tighten around his arm that was resting by his side. "Open your eyes Dean," Sam said softly.

Dean growled loudly. "No," he said defiantly, amazed that he had managed a word other than 'Sammy'.

"Come on Dean. Please."

_Damn him, _Dean thought bitterly, but instantly began the tiring task of trying to pry his eyes open. Dean surmised that it must have taken a good twenty minutes before his greens were moaning to the world, but when they were, Dean never wanted them closed again.

Happy tears welled in Sam's eyes as he looked down at his big brother in the hospital bed. Grinning widely, in what Dean knew to be the first in such a long time, Sam gripped Dean's arm even harder. Dean had to admit to himself that if Sam looked the way he did, Dean himself must look a whole lot worse. Sam's head was wrapped in a thick bandage, his brown hair peeking above and straying around it. There was a large cut with obvious stitching going down the right side of his face and his stature was poor. His face was drawn and pale and his eyes were red and swollen as though he had been crying.

"Thank god," he breathed. "Thank god."

Dean blinked several times before he was sure his vision was back to twenty-twenty. "Y…you know h…ow mu…much I…I don't like that k…ind of lang…uage, Sammy." Dean joked, coughing slightly.

Sam only smiled broadly. "I need to call the doctor," he ran a hand through his hair as best he could and letting go of Dean and stepping back. "He needs to check you out."

Dean groaned and closed his eyes briefly before reopening them. "W…Where's dad?" he asked, feeling his body twinge uncomfortably all of a sudden as he noticed for the first time that Sam was leaning heavily on a walking cane. What's going on? "What hap…happened?"

"You don't remember?" Sam asked slowly, cocking an eyebrow, any trace of glee gone from his face.

Dean concentrated, glimpses of what happened resurfacing. "I…I remember the de…mon and…and dad and get…ting into the c…car…"

Dean stopped; his eyes glaring up at the ceiling as he remembered the demon mock him in his father's body. Tell him he wasn't needed…he wasn't loved. But he was interrupted from his thoughts as he heard Sam ramble off.

"There was a truck…hit us on dad's side," Sam hurried. "I was the first to wake…didn't know if you were going to make it. Bleeding all over the place…"

"Sam," Dean interrupted harshly, his eyes set on his younger brother fiercely. "How's dad?"

Sam sighed. "He's fine, Dean. His leg healed right up, better then mine," he said resentfully. "Went to get a coffee. I doubt he would have left if he knew you were going to wake."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief, clutching his chest more fiercely when that particular breath set out a course of spasms.

Sam hurried forward as best he could. "Are you alright?" he asked, worry etched into his tone. "I should get the doctor."

"It's fine Sammy," Dean said, patting his chest to demonstrate his point. "I don't need no doctor. As soon as I can lift this hand," he indicated with his eyes to the immobile arm lying by his side, "I'm checking myself out of here."

"I think you should listen to your brother Dean," a gruff, tired voice spoke from the doorway.

Lifting his head slightly so that he could see over his toes, Dean's breath hitched in his throat as he watched his father limp slightly through the hospital room door, carrying two Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. Handing one over to Sam, John turned to face his eldest, giving him a once over as best he could with Dean covered in hospital sheets. It was as good a time as any for Dean to do the same.

John Winchester was looking as haggard as Dean has ever seen him. His eyes had sunken in and he had lost a considerable amount of weight. His right arm was in a sling and his head, too, was bandaged.

"It's good to see you son," John breathed and Dean was as shocked as ever to witness the tears that began to fill his father's eyes.

"Oh, shucks, dad," Dean grinned, hoping to spare his father the humiliation.

John nodded, as though understanding Dean's intentions and turned to Sam. "Sammy, go get the doctor, would you?" he asked.

Sam raised both eyebrows. "Hello?" he said, pointing to his cane with one hand. "You see this cane? This means I can't move. You get the doctor."

John frowned as he took a seat by Dean's bedside. "You were all ready to go get one before I entered, you go," he smiled up at his youngest growling face. "And besides, I took your seat."

Grumbling, Sam took one last look at Dean before turning his back on them both and limping from the room in search of a doctor.

John turned back to Dean, watching the way his chest moved up and down in rhythm, taking comfort in knowing that the physical damage he had caused his son was nearly over, it was the emotional scarring that scared John the most. How much damage had he really done? But it was apparent that he would find the answer to that question later, as Dean's eyes started to drift slowly back down. It was understandable of course, but John wished he could have some time to talk with his son alone.

"Hey Dean," John said softly, putting a hand on his son's leg and shaking it gently. "Come on, son, you need to stay awake for the doctor."

John could tell that Dean was struggling to obey his apparent order, but his eyes refused to cooperate, so John shook a bit harder.

"Dean, wake up son."

Dean's eyelids fluttered and his head turned so that he was facing his father.

"Hmm?"

"Dean, I need you to stay awake for me," John said loudly, hoping to startle Dean awake.

"You…you don't need me," Dean's mutter was just enough to startle John.

Letting go of his eldest, John jumped from his chair and took an anxious step away from his drifting son. He knew as soon as the demon entered his body, that it was just going to bite him in the ass before the end. But John was interrupted from his thoughts as Dean, eyes half closed, licked his dry lips and spoke again.

"You don't….don't n…need me to stay aw…ake."

John watched silently, his breath hitched in his throat and his legs trembling slightly, as Dean smiled softly, his eyes shutting altogether.

"Dad? You let him fall asleep?" John turned with wide eyes as Sam limped towards him, followed by a surly looking doctor.

"Well, how do you expect me to read his mental state now, Mr. Patterson?" the doctor asked shrewdly, placing his index and middle fingers on Dean's neck.

John took a deep breath and tried to steady his legs. "I…I tried to keep him awake, but you know Dean. All he does is sleep," John glanced at the doctor hopefully.

"Well I'd have hoped he's be energised enough after a five week coma," the doctor snapped, letting go of Dean's neck and striding past Sam and John towards the door. "Call me straight away when he wakes. And _keep _him awake for longer than five minutes, please."

Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Thanks Dr. Arden," Sam replied quickly as the doctor left the room hastily.

John sighed. "That doctor is foul," he said, frowning deeply after the doctor.

Sam nodded his agreement before turning back to his sleeping brother and laying a hand gently on his forehead. John watched his youngest carefully as tears brimmed to the surface and travelled carefully down those slightly flushed cheeks. John heard Sam take in a shuddering breath and a deep sigh. John witnessed as Sam's hand travelled from Dean's forehead into his unruly hair, combing it through. Sam took in another shuddering breath before he collapsed into John's discarded chair, now gripping Dean's forearm, his ragged breathing becoming heavier as his cane clattered to the floor.

"Sammy?" John tested, stepping forwards carefully, his broken arm swinging uselessly on his chest. "You okay son?"

There was a sniffle and suddenly, without quite knowing how it had come to it, John had Sam in a fierce one armed hug, Sam's face buried in his chest. As John felt the tears leak through his shirt, he couldn't help but wonder if what the demon had said held any truth to it. Was Sam really his favourite son? Did Dean need him more than John, himself, needed Dean? Was the hunt worth more to John than his own son? The answer to all three, with no doubt, was no. How could John favour one son over the other when he loved both of them so much? How could he not need Dean when Dean was the one that kept him sane and whole? That kept the family together so steady and consistent? How could the hunt be worth more than his boys when it was his boys that he was fighting for? For the innocent four year old whose mother was cruelly taken from him and for the precious infant that didn't get a chance at knowing the blonde beauty?

Sam's choking sobs brought John from his thoughts and he tightened his arm around his youngest, feeling his own tears leak through the corners of his eyes, needing the comfort almost as much as Sam.

oOoOoOo

The next time Dean awoke, he stayed awake for two minutes before drifting back off to sleep. Dr. Arden was in such a fuss that he hurried both Sam and John out of Dean's room and set a nurse to watch over Dean. It had become apparent to both Sam and John that Dean was not in his right state and that became even more evident when they were called to Dr. Arden's office.

John remembered stepping into the office, Sam by his side, and examining the slightly claustrophobic room. Bookshelves lined the walls, leaving only enough space for Dr. Arden to fashionably showcase his awards and certificates. John remembered the man that stood by Dr. Arden, giving them both the once over, then smiling gently, sympathetically. Dr. Arden wore a sombre expression, but once John and Sam entered the office, he stood up and made them welcome, shaking both their hands and offering them a seat each.

"I've had time to examine Dean," was Dr. Arden's opening line.

"He's awake?" Sam asked instantly.

Dr. Arden cleared his throat and took a sideways glance over to the man standing by him.

"This is Dr. Knowles," Arden introduced, carefully avoiding Sam's question. "He is a psychiatrist that works in this hospital."

John glanced worryingly at the psychiatrist before bringing his attention back on Arden. "My boy doesn't need a shrink," John said firmly, glaring at Arden as though challenging him to disagree.

Arden nodded understandingly. "I'm afraid that your son does, Mr. Patterson," he replied gently. "Your son is extremely fatigued at the moment, but he has had plenty of rest. His muscles are aching; he could barely concentrate on what I was saying and didn't recall ever speaking to either of you just yesterday," Arden sighed deeply. "His axillary lymph nodes are tender and he reported a very sore throat."

John ran a hand through his hair, obviously confused. "That could mean anything…absolutely anything."

Dr. Knowles stepped forward and nodded his agreement. "Yes, that could mean anything," he approved. "But the most troubling thing for us is that he is fatigued terribly. He found it extremely hard to sit up in bed let alone get _out_ of bed."

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah, but if you hadn't realised, a damn mugger slashed his chest," John winced slightly at the anger in Sam's voice. "_And _we were hit by a fucking truck. What? Did you expect him to do cartwheels or something?"

"I'm sorry to have upset you, Mr. Patterson," Knowles apologised, sincerity embedded there. "But you have to understand that this amount of fatigue shouldn't be warranted in a person, no matter what they have been hit by or how long they have slept. The fact of the matter is, he _has _been diagnosed."

John forced his legs to stop shaking but could not stop the pounding of his heart or the wave of nausea that suddenly overwhelmed him. "Diagnosed?" he queried. "Diagnosed with what?"

Arden fixed John with a sympathetic look, his jaw working. "Dean has what is known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. This kind of illness cannot be treated."

The room fell into a state of shock as both Sam and John put a hand to their mouth, trying to process this new information. John pushed back his chair fiercely and leaned heavily on the desk, barely an inch away from Arden.

"What will it do to my son?" he asked dangerously. "What will it do?"

"Your son has only a mild case, but it will wear him out if he doesn't maintain a healthy and somewhat energetic lifestyle," Arden started, sounding as if he had swallowed a textbook. "He will be fatigued; I say that with no doubt. He will have difficulties with memory and concentration; headaches are more than likely, as is dizziness and muscle pain. Dean may experience bowel troubles, night sweats and allergies." Arden paused, glancing worriedly, from around John, at Sam's watering eyes and hesitantly stated the worst of it. "But I am more concerned with his psychological state."

Arden turned his head towards Knowles, silently begging him to intervene.

"People with CFS are more emotionally vulnerable than others," Knowles supplied, glancing at John who had not taken his eyes off Arden. "Because of their state they may become depressed, may experience panic attacks or even become suicidal. It depends on how severe the case is and how strong the person is."

Sam drew in a shaky breath. "Dean…Dean _is _strong," he assured. "He's the strongest person I know."

Knowles nodded, but otherwise remained silent, his eyes fixed on John who still leant heavily over the table, glaring dangerously at Arden.

"Don't tell me there's no fucking treatment," John said softly, his eyes sparkling and his mouth twisted into a grimace. "Don't tell me there's no cure for _my _boy. Maybe there's none for that goddamn punk down the hall that's breathing through a ventilator, but there's something for my boy."

"Mr. Patterson," Arden spoke gently, a hand suddenly resting on John's broad shoulder. "I'm sorry-"

John grabbed Arden by the collar before Arden could speak another word and brought him out of his seat. "Don't tell me your fucking sorry," John growled. "When you're telling me that my son is going to live out of a fucking bed from now on, don't tell me your sorry."

"Dad!" Sam jumped forwards, forgetting his walking cane and seized his father around his chest, pulling backwards so that they both slammed against the back wall.

"I…I can give him medication for muscle ache," Arden stammered, regaining his stature and positioning himself comfortably in his seat, eyeing John warily.

John threw both doctors dirty looks before storming out of the office, slamming the door angrily after him. He hurried, nearly ran, towards Dean's room, startling people as he raced by. He received many jeers and insults but he didn't mind, he had to see his son. He had to know if his son did have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or if the doctors had mixed up the files. He just had to know.

Reaching the doorway and standing just inside John couldn't help but give a strangled gasp as he suddenly noticed what he hadn't noticed before, a fatigued son. Dean was sleeping in his hospital room bed, his head tilted to one side. His hair was slightly ruffled but looked somewhat flat at the same time. Heavy, dark circles encircled his eyes and his mouth was set in a thin line. John could tell Dean was in a restless sleep as his legs kept kicking his covers uncomfortably.

John heard footsteps behind him, but didn't bother to turn around. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but didn't bother to acknowledge the owner.

"He doesn't know yet," Sam whispered from behind John. "I volunteered to tell him."

"Brilliant," John sneered. "He's going to love being told he can't get out of bed."

John couldn't see it, but he knew Sam had frowned. "He only has mild CFS according to Arden," he said. "He _can _get out of bed, dad. He'll just be very tired. His case isn't severe, he'll manage."

John snorted. "Shall we tell him then?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he strode forwards and shook Dean slightly by the shoulders.

"Dean?"

**TBC**

oOoOoOo

**What do you think?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **See chapter one!

**A/N: **This chapter was only written because **HoofsTails Gal **wanted to know more and I think that's a fantabulous (ignore my weird language) idea! Thanks! Some people don't know what I'd be talking about otherwise. So if this chapter seems boring and stupid (because I had to change a few things around) I'm sorry!

It hadn't surprised John at all at how well Dean had taken the news. He had simply shrugged it off; claiming that no amount of fatigue would keep him down. This alone had surfaced a new amount of pride in both John and Sam, something that was always there, but never really showed itself. Knowles had taken it upon himself to visit the eldest sibling nearly everyday, trying to 'counsel' him, help him through an _ordeal_, as it were. What greatly disturbed John the most, however, was that Arden had now decided to make further tests and examinations, watching Dean nearly all the time, day and night. This angered John to the point where he took Arden aside, never too gentle with the portly physician.

"You like looking my son up, or something?" John snarled, just outside Dean's room where both Sam and Dean were engaged in an arm wrestle, Sam only ever letting Dean win.

"Ex…excuse me?" Arden stammered to let his words out, his fear of John increasing by the second.

"You watch him, _all the time_," John felt his blood boil. "Why?"

The doctor reddened considerably. "C…CFS is a condition that stays around for at least six months before it's diagnosed…I…I may have made an error," the doctor studied John's fuming face before taking a hastened step backwards. "It…it may be something else…something else may have caused these symptoms…"

"Like what?" John snarled, taking a step towards the doctor.

"Well, it is possible he could have contracted Lyme disease, any types of cancers, it really depends," Arden narrowed his eyes carefully as John took another step towards him.

"I want another doctor to work on my boy," John growled. "I want a _professional _doctor."

oOoOoOo

With John's very persuasive techniques, they were able to get a new doctor for Dean in less than a day. The doctor was a fairly built man in his forties with greying brown hair. On appearance he looked like a surly man, but once he engaged John, Sam and Dean in conversation, he was jovial and enthusiastic.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Barton, I'll be taking care of Dean from now on," he introduced himself, shaking John's hand first, then Sam and then Dean's who lay in bed, blinking blearily up at him.

"I hope you're more trustworthy than Arden," Sam said instantly, surveying Barton carefully.

Barton nodded. "Mr…Oh the hell with it," he sighed, smiling gently at them. "May I call you by your first names? 'Mr. Patterson' will get confusing for all of us."

"Sure," all three replied in unison.

"Right," Barton turned back to Sam. "Sam isn't it?" he asked and when Sam nodded, continued with a light smile on his face. "I'll be blunt. Arden is a sneaky bastard. We hired him at a time when we were low on doctors a couple of years back. Lately we've noticed that his diagnoses are all over the place, examinations are done in the crudest fashions and his patients seem to be in worse condition than when they came in."

John's brain suddenly went into overdrive. "Worse condition?" he asked. "How?"

"Well he prescribes the wrong medication, doesn't he?" Barton turned on John, his smile slipping.

"Why is he still practicing then?" Dean asked from his position in the bed.

"No complaints," Barton said simply, sombrely. "We would have no grounds to fire him. We're actually in the process of checking out his history and trying to validate those certificates he's plastered on his walls. The bastard's a smart one. But I think you scared him, John," Barton smiled fondly at the eldest Winchester.

"So what about this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome thing?" John asked, suddenly taking a liking to this doctor. "Is it true or is Arden full of shit?"

Barton sighed loudly and turned to look down at Dean. "It's hard to say unless I have a talk with Dean myself and examine him, that is."

Sam nodded. "Right," he said, shifting awkwardly as he leant heavily against his cane. "And when will you be able to start that?" he asked.

"I was thinking right now," Barton suggested. "I think you guys have been jerked around for far too long. You may have been given the incorrect diagnosis and yet you could have been given the correct one. I think that you should be given a certain one soon and I would like to start right away, if that's okay."

"That's what I wanted to hear," John nodded, but didn't smile, mirroring the doctor's stern face. "Do you need room or should we stay?"

"Dean?" Barton looked down at Dean who had remained silent through most of the conversation.

Dean stifled a yawn as best he could before answering. "You mind leaving?" he asked his brother and father.

"No problem," Sam replied and set both Dean and his father with a meaningful look. "I've got to do some research anyway."

Both Barton and Dean watched as Sam and John left the room, quietly closing the door behind them.

"You want to sit up for me?" Barton asked, turning back to Dean.

"No," Dean replied sincerely, but in a tired, worn out voice. "Not really, dude."

"Well, _dude_, I'd prefer it if you did," Barton replied, a grin playing on his lips.

Dean smirked, but slowly levelled himself up on the bed, leaning heavily against the headboard. Instantly, Barton brought his hands up and started feeling around Dean's neck.

"Dude, too close," Dean said, affronted by the contact.

Barton started to laugh and Dean quickly thanked the heavens that they were an arm's length apart.

"My six year old son says 'dude'," Barton said fondly. "I let him watch 'Dude Where's My Car?' and ever since then he can't stop saying it."

Dean cocked an eyebrow tiredly. "You let your six year old son watch that movie?" he asked, not really caring. "Isn't that a little old for him?"

Barton laughed again. "That's what my wife said," he replied, dropping his hands from Dean's neck and looking down at the young man. "Then she saw that Kutcher fellow and now she's glued to Punk'd."

Dean chuckled softly, instantly stopping as he felt the beginnings of a migraine.

"Headache?" Barton acknowledged and when Dean nodded he pressed a hand to Dean's forehead. "You're hot."

"Why thanks," Dean winked. "You don't look that bad yourself."

Barton laughed and flipped the covers to Dean's bed, revealing Dean's slightly tanned legs only somewhat covered by his hospital gown.

"Whoa, whoa," Dean shuddered, trying to pull back the sheets. "Not until the second date."

"Relax," Barton smiled. "You said your muscles ache? I'm checking if there's any redness or swelling."

Dean relaxed and sighed openly, trying any way how to rid this increasing fatigue.

"No redness or swelling," Barton reported after checking both his legs and arms. He sat on the bed next to Dean's still legs.

"That's a good thing right?" Dean asked cautiously.

"In a sense," Barton agreed. "It rules out a few diseases I've had in mind. Rheumatoid arthritis being one among others. The thing with CFS is that it is literally an invisible illness. It has no markers, no trademarks on the body."

Dean sighed. "So, it could very well be CFS then?" he asked, but already knowing the answer. "Because I look fine, do I?"

Barton chuckled. "Apart from the obvious accident you've just been in and the bags under your eyes, you look as pretty as a picture."

"So what do we do now?" Dean asked dejectedly.

"I want to take blood tests," Barton explained, standing up from the bed. "Although CFS can't be seen through any diagnostic laboratory testing, I would like to rule out any disease I can. I would also like to get a psychologist in here and do some memory and concentration tests and just get a read on your mental state, just so we can rule out Depression."

"Brilliant," Dean drawled. "I _love _tests."

"Yeah, me too," Barton replied, a sour look on his face. "I had a triple bypass done a year back," he explained. "That's what you get for smoking, eh?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably, his leg jerking involuntarily as he felt a pain run through his muscles. "So, if it is CFS, how will you know?"

"Well, we'll have to rule out everything else first before anything," Barton explained. "But I wanted to get a head start today, so I'm going to ask you a few questions, nothing too personal."

"Shoot," Dean encouraged, preparing himself.

"Before the accident, did you feel drained at all; did you have restless nights or unrefreshing mornings?" Barton asked, pulling out a notebook and a pen from his front pocket of his doctor's coat.

Dean paused slightly, rubbing his chest as it gave a twinge. "Well, I work late you know?" he said in a defensive tone. "I work abroad and travel a lot, sometimes I don't even make it to bed. I stay up really late. Of course I'd be tired."

Barton nodded slowly, trying very carefully not to distress the young man. "Is it because you don't sleep or because you _can't _sleep?" Barton asked carefully.

"What is this, doc?" Dean asked, his eyes averting Barton's. "I thought you were cool."

"Answer the question, Dean," Barton replied, any trace of cheerfulness gone from his tone.

Dean sighed, but refused to meet Barton's gaze. "I can sleep most of the time, I really can. But sometimes I just lay awake in bed, trying to ignore everything around me. And when I wake up, that's to say if I'd gone to sleep in the first place, it's like I'd never went to bed."

Barton seemed to find this extremely interesting as he immediately began to scrawl down notes at an alarming rate.

"Can you tell me how your brother and father told you about CFS?" Barton asked, looking back down at Dean. "What were you feeling at the time?"

"I thought you were a physician, not a shrink," Dean replied swiftly, finally meeting Barton's gaze.

The doctor smiled softly. "You know, it'll be a lot easier if you just told me without a fuss," he said.

"Or what?" Dean challenged. "You're going to set Knowles on me, prescribe a few medications? Get me calmed down?"

Barton was taken aback by this new attitude coming from the young man. As far as Barton could tell, Dean was a light fella, hardly letting anything get to him. But it was apparent to Barton now that something had hit a very nasty cord within Dean.

"I'm not getting anyone in here, Dean," Barton replied gently. "I'm not prescribing any medication for anyone until I know what's going on. So tell me Dean, what do you remember being told about CFS?"

Dean looked down into his lap, his Adam's apple working furiously. Barton could tell that Dean was trying extremely hard to control his emotions.

"I…They just said something about fatigue," Dean said in a tired voice. "They said I'd be feeling tired for the rest of my life."

"They said more than that, didn't they?" Barton asked quietly, watching as Dean's face slightly reddened.

"Fuck you," Dean snarled, meeting Barton's eyes furiously. "Fuck you 'cause you already know."

Barton's eyes widened. "Why don't you tell me?" he asked casually.

Dean ran a worried hand through his hair, his face twisted into a painful expression. "I don't remember that much alright?" he said angrily, almost shouting. "I wasn't really concentrating."

"Why weren't you concentrating Dean?" Barton inquired.

"_I don't know_," Dean might as well have shouted, digging his face into his hands and kicking his legs in frustration.

Barton nodded, closely inspecting Dean before pulling the blankets over the young man and scribbling a last note on his notebook before pocketing it, along with his pen.

"I'll message a pathologist to take a sample of your blood for testing," Barton said quietly, trying to stem the rush of emotions he felt for the Winchester. "You should also expect to speak to a psychologist today…not Knowles. Someone new."

Barton waited briefly, hoping to get a reply or any sort of reaction from Dean, but when he received none; he turned his back on him and started towards the door.

"I can't have CFS," a muffled voice came from Dean, but it was enough to warrant hope from Barton. "I just can't have it…I can't be tired for the rest of my life." Dean looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I can feel it already, you know. I know it's nothing else, because I sleep and I sleep and I don't get any refreshed. I feel weak and my muscles ache all the time." Dean held up his hands, staring at them almost devoid of emotion. "I feel _old_. But I just can't have it. I _can't_."

Barton felt his heart got out for the man that was quite clearly suffering an emotional blow. "Whatever you have or don't have, Dean, I will be the one that tells you, personally," Barton promised sincerely. "I will tell you in whatever way you prefer. Alone, with your family, any way you want. I will tell you the facts, I will tell you what we will do about it and I will tell you anything you want to know. You _can _lead a normal life, no matter what you have or don't have." He paused slightly, noting the pained expression on Dean's face. "I'll get you something for that headache."

It was evident to Barton that Dean had never been spoken to in such a way before as Dean looked extremely uncomfortable at the moment, but Barton didn't care. He had always taken it upon himself to see his patients through the worst of their diagnosis, treatment and anything in between, so, he smiled gently and left Dean quickly.

Closing the door behind him as he stepped out of Dean's room, he came upon John, the youngest Winchester absent, staring at him anxiously, expecting a diagnosis, Barton surmised. So Barton did the only thing he could do. He gave John his diagnosis.

"He needs his family."

oOoOoOo

For the next hour, Dean was exposed to needles and tubes that seemed to come from any location on the pathologist's white lab coat. The tourniquet placed around Dean's arm didn't seem to be doing its job properly and the young pathologist couldn't seem to find a vein, inserting and reinserting needles all over the place. By the end, Dean felt extremely exhausted and nauseas that he didn't think he had enough energy to continue with the day, but alas, as soon as the pathologist left, the psychologist entered, shooing anyone else in the small hospital room away from her and her patient.

Dean endured extensive memory and concentration tests that lasted a good half hour each. On the inside he was crying out for Mary, sometimes John, but mostly Sam, on the outside he fired quirky comments at the psychologist. His nausea hadn't improved by the time they had moved on to his feelings and his thoughts and it only intensified as the psychologist packed up her mountain of paperwork and set off, welcoming John back into the room, where he sat by Dean, watching as Dean struggled to take control of his stomach before spilling it's contents on his bed covers. He hardly noticed the comforting hand on his back or his father yell for a nurse to help him.

Dean slept the rest of the day away, his father by his side, wiping sweat drops from his forehead.

oOoOoOo

It was early the next morning when Dean awoke, his father snoring softly in a chair beside Dean's bed. Feeling slightly responsible for whatever kind of sleep loss his father and brother had suffered, he let his father sleep on, watching him silently, trying to cast his thoughts from _that _night.

But how could he not think about _that_ night? It might have been over a month ago, but it was still very sharp within his mind. Dean remembered the physical pain as his father-no, his _possessed _father-slashed his chest and generated blood to flow freely from his mouth. He could feel the emotional pain as he begged his father to stop, to help him when he needed that help. Couldn't his father see that he was in pain? That he was still in pain? Even though he had dismissed the idea? And was it true what the demon had said through his father's mouth? That he wasn't needed as much as he needed the family? Was it true that Sammy was the favourite son? That would make sense, wouldn't it? Dean only remembered being told to take care of his brother, to protect his brother, not to take care of himself, to make sure that he, himself, got out alive. But Sam always fought with their father, always made life hell for the eldest Winchester, even when hell wasn't needed. Why would John favour Sam over Dean? Dean was the more obeying son, the more trustworthy and the greater hunter, why should he be put second? It was he that made John a father, not Sam. It was he that saved John's ass over and over again, not looking for any reward, any thanks.

"Hey."

The object of Dean's thoughts stood in the doorway, watching him carefully. Sam held papers in his right hand as he leant on his cane with his left. Walking forwards carefully he sat on the foot of Dean's bed and stared at Dean carefully, dropping his cane unceremoniously on the cold hospital floor.

"Hey," Dean replied, taking his gaze off John and towards Sam.

"Came in last night to see you," Sam started. "You were out cold."

Dean shifted on his bed as much as he could. "Yeah," he said. "I was-"

"Sick?" Sam suggested. "Yeah, I know. We told Barton. He said he'd take that into 'careful consideration'."

Dean snorted. "Everything is going to be taken into careful consideration."

Sam nodded, but no smile.

"Where did you go off to yesterday, anyway?" Dean asked, watching Sam shrewdly.

Sam held up his papers that he still held. "Research," he said simply.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "On what?" he asked cautiously.

There was a grunt and a quick movement that came from John before he scrubbed his face, blinked furiously and answered for Sam.

"He went to dig up info on Arden," he yawned, but his voice was hinged with conviction.

Dean's eyes widened as he slowly moved his hand up to his chest, still lying on the bed. "Oh, why?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I thought that would be obvious, Dean," he said, as though he believed that statement. "We thought he might be working with dark magic or something or other. We thought he might be supernatural."

"And what did you find?" Dean asked his full attention on Sam.

"Whatever you have, Dean," Sam said, almost whispering. "It's not supernatural."

Dean nodded, or as much as he could lying down, finding that he was completely calm. "Yeah," he said, quite confidently. "I didn't really believe it was."

"I did find something on Arden though," Sam said, obviously trying to please the other two men.

"What is it?" John asked hurriedly.

Sam indicated towards the papers. "Didn't even go to med school," he said a new kind of hatred in his voice. "Dropped out of high school at seventeen, got arrested for fraud. So, what did he do?" Sam paused, as though expecting Dean or John to answer. "He acquired fake IDs. Would you get this? His résumé includes a chef, a pilot and a fucking garbage man! He's been conning people for ages, but never stays in the same place for too long. This has been his longest stay."

John laughed, almost heartily. "Oh, so he's like you two rolled into one?" he chuckled.

Sam's bottom lip lowered. "What?" he asked. "Dean and I aren't like him. We're nothing like him!"

"Fake IDs?" John questioned. "Doctor? Chef? Pilot? Who're you kidding Sam? Even I don't put up such a pathetic act."

Dean grinned. "Bet you wish you could."

John looked over at his eldest. "What are you implying?" he asked, but a soft smile on his face.

"Anyway," Sam interrupted. "He's wanted in Arkansas, Utah and Minnesota. Guess who his partner in crime is?"

"Knowles," Dean stated assertively.

"Knowles," Sam agreed. "I'm handing in my papers and filing a complaint."

"Sam, don't," Dean snapped. "Hand in the papers if you want, I don't give a damn, just don't file a complaint."

"Why the hell not, Dean?" Sam retorted, almost angrily.

"Maybe we could get a fair bit of cash out of it," John interrupted, his eyes shining with the uncertain possibilities.

Dean groaned. "Sammy, don't file a complaint, okay?"

"I don't see-"

Sam was interrupted as a curt nod echoed distantly around the room. All three Winchester's glanced up as Barton stepped inside, carrying a clipboard, disclosing no emotions.

"Hello, all three Mr. Patterson's," he said, before fixing Dean with a serious face. "I have the results of your blood test and a legit diagnosis. How do you want to do this?"

Dean glanced at his father's emotionless face and his brother's worried one as they both turned to face the doctor.

"Just tell me its cancer," Dean said steadily, choosing to ignore Sam's noise of objection. "Tell me it's my heart or my liver. Tell me I'm going to die…just don't tell me I'm tired."

Barton set Dean with a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, Dean, but Arden was right. I could find nothing physically wrong with you," he took a deep breath and continued, trying to block out the helpless look on Dean's face. "It seems that you do have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I really am sorry."

Dean nodded slowly and Barton could tell that it had taken him a lot to do that one simple action. Sam sat on the end on the bed, swallowing so much that Barton was sure he had sucked his mouth dry. John's face had reddened, and he stood up, clasping a hand around his son's arm and holding it up to his side, as though to keep him comfort.

"Can…Can you tell us exactly how that will affect Dean?" John asked slowly.

Barton stood up straight and looked squarely at Dean. "You have already gotten a taste of the most of it," he said softly, but loud enough so that all could hear. "Fatigue is the most obvious. I'm afraid that symptom will never completely vanish, but hopefully over time, it will lessen. Muscle ache, which I will be prescribing medication for, as well as headaches, the more severe than most kinds. Concentration and memory will suffer, as the results from your psychological tests have proved. There is nothing I can prescribe for that. You need to practice your ability to memorise and to concentrate. If you exert a lot of mental or physical energy, you may experience an increase in malaise."

Dean swallowed uncertainly. "Mala-what?" he asked, feeling his father's grip on his arm tighten.

"Malaise," Barton provided. "If you do something extremely exhausting to your body, you are likely to get fatigued and become sick, which is what happened yesterday when the psychologist left."

"Oh," Dean replied softly, his mouth twisting downwards. 'So…so no hunting?" he asked, his voice quavering.

Barton could see that the idea of not being able to hunt again would be devastating for the young man. "We'll talk about what activities to pursue later, okay?"

"Is there anything else, doctor?" Sam asked, looking up at the doctor with watering eyes.

"Joint pain," Barton continued, not taking his eyes off Dean and surprised when he saw no emotion encased in those green eyes, just his mouth's downward shape might have provided an insight into Dean's emotions. "Sore throat. Both of these can be controlled of course. And you will have problems with sleeping. All these symptoms you have already experienced, these are the symptoms that diagnoses CFS."

Dean closed his eyes briefly, shuddering involuntarily, but when he reopened his eyes, his expression was as stoic as ever.

"Anything else?" he asked, shoving his free hand under the blankets and crossing them tightly.

"I have a pamphlet for you to read through," Barton said, pulling out a brightly decorated pamphlet titled 'So Your Tired?' printed in large, bold lettering. He handed it to Dean who flung it on the floor and set the doctor with a stern gaze.

"I don't want to read it off some pamphlet," Dean said defiantly.

Barton nodded. "These are extra symptoms, something you might not even experience," he hesitated, but on seeing all three Winchester's sour expressions, he continued. "You might experience bowel troubles, allergies to certain foods and smells, as well as visual disturbances and dizziness. You may have night sweats and chills. What I'm most concerned about is your psychological state."

"Psychological state?" John questioned, suddenly letting go of Dean's arm. "Like what?" His voice lowered an octave as he stepped forwards towards the doctor. "He's not…you know?" He made a face which he believed illustrated that of a mentally incapacitated individual.

"I'm not crazy, dad," Dean snapped heatedly.

Barton smiled softly. "No, he's not crazy," he assured. "It's just that, with this type of illness, people focus too much on the negatives. They begin to see the black and whites and not the in-betweens."

Dean's mouth tilted lower at this. "Black and whites?" he asked sceptically. "Negatives? Sorry to disappoint you, doc, but I can't see the greys and I can't see the positives."

Barton looked down at Dean sadly. "I spoke to your psychologist last night," he said.

Dean knew where this was going and knew he had to stop it before all else. "Fooling around behind the missus, eh?" he replied, winking.

Barton frowned. "She thinks you're going through things you're not telling me about," he said bluntly. "And you don't have to tell me, but that psychologist knows what's she's talking about and she knows that you could be bet-"

"I don't need some shrink to tell me about me," Dean growled, struggling to sit up, but getting there, clutching his head and closing his eyes when he did.

"Dean?"

Dean felt a steady hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to lean into the touch, but knew he could show no weakness. So, he removed his hand from his head, blinked away the dizziness and threw off the bed sheets and blankets, shoving away Sam's hand in the process.

"I don't need some fucking shrink to tell me how I feel!" Dean shouted, feeling a headache come on. "And I don't need you to tell me I'm going to be homebound."

Barton took a step forward towards Dean as the young man flung his legs over the side of his bed and attempted to stand up.

"You're not going to be housebound," Barton said carefully. "I see that's not an option for you, and it won't have to be. Trust me. You have only a mild case, it's controllable."

Sam snatched his cane from the floor and hurried to Dean's side, where Dean attempted to stand up.

"Why is this happening?" John asked, almost desperately. "What's brought this on?"

Barton looked at him sadly. "Adults are more susceptible to it than children," he explained carefully, watching as Sam tried to coax Dean back into bed. "It's not something your born with, it's something that's gained. I'm really sorry."

Barton looked around at the three Winchesters briefly before quietly leaving the room. John turned back to his two boys, feeling his heart break slightly as he witnessed Dean successfully upright himself, and then tumble back down.

"Dean, buddy, back into bed," John said softly, trying not to notice the way Dean's eyes lit slightly with unshed tears.

"A bit of fatigue isn't gonna bring me down," Dean choked out, staring up his father, begging him to agree.

"You already said that Dean," Sam said softly, patting him on the back of the neck, a lone tear tricking down the bridge of his nose.

Dean turned to face him, a confused look on his face. "I know," he said. "I know."

But the thing is, he didn't know.

**TBC**

oOoOoOo

**I strive on reviews :P**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for all the reviews! Greatly appreciated, every single one! And I should warn people that I'm Australian and that I've tried to change Aussie language into American. The key word there is TRIED…lol…I've used carport and I don't know if that's right, I tried to use carpark (which is what we Aus people say) and the computer said a big fat no no and came up with carport instead…so I hope the computer's right. :D Anyway, thanks again for the reviews, they were all very lovely and I tried to reply to people, not all but a majority!

oOoOoOo

Dean spent the next few days in what he later believed to be numb shock. His daily exercise routine was sitting and standing continually, as though testing his strength. He would walk paces in his cramped hospital room, strengthening his leg muscles. It wasn't as though he couldn't walk; it was just that he hadn't taken a walk in such a long time; it was as though he had almost forgotten the feeling. He soon realised that he had been initially right about the illness, it _couldn't_ keep him down. He was able to do all the things he would have normally done otherwise. He _could _walk without assistance. He _could _run. He _could _lift heavy things. He _could _do it all and he did, just more slowly and more carefully, more wearily.

The pamphlet colourfully titled 'So You're Tired?' remained on the floor by Dean's bed where he had thrown it heatedly. Any attempt to pick it up was defeated when Dean barked out to the perpetrator to leave it where it lay. It disturbed both Sam and John greatly when Dean would throw angry glances at the coloured paper at the most random of times. It was only after the many psychologists' visits that seemed to lead to nowhere, did Dean stand from his bed and bend down to pick it up, his hand shaking slightly as he stumbled back to his bed and sat down upon it.

"'Have you got Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?'" Dean read aloud, rechecking the room, making sure he was alone. "'Well, you're in luck,'" Dean snorted at this, but read on. "'Because this booklet it just for you.' I must be so lucky," he drawled, turning the page and staring at a picture of a young woman smiling up at him.

Squinting his eyes against the sunlight filtering in through his hospital window, Dean speed read through the symptoms that was already explained to him by Barton, nothing he hadn't heard before. His eyes suddenly fell onto bold, black lettering that read 'Where Will I Be In Ten Years?' It took a lot of effort, but Dean swallowed and brought his eyes down to the small print underneath.

"'Individual's conditions may vary over time,'" he muttered, his finger following the words. "'It is possible that their condition may worsen or even improve, depending on the lifestyle they lead.'"

Dean read and reread the small passage again, not knowing what to make of it.

oOoOoOo

On the last morning of Dean's stay in the hospital, Barton made a quick visit, checking out Dean's chest and head wounds as well as going through with Dean what he believed would help him on his way to managing the illness. He talked about support groups and special kinds of hospitals. He went through with Dean what he could do to relieve muscles ache, something, he said, which was much easier than taking medication. But on hearing that Barton's idea of exercise included an hour long session of Yoga, Dean had intervened by claiming that Yoga was intended for men with no sexual arousals. But the most devastating part of the conversation was when Dean asked about hunting-the normal kind of hunting-not that it'll matter anyway.

"Bird hunting, yes," Barton had replied with a sombre expression. "Bear hunting, unadvisable."

Dean had replied with a 'huh' and withdrew himself. He couldn't begin to describe to the doctor what kind of a bear he was intending to hunt.

Going against a demon was going to be hard work. Going against a bear? That was just a joke. His father and brother didn't need to know what Barton thought he could or couldn't do. It wasn't up to him. It wasn't up to _them_. He knew his own strength, he knew his limits.

"You ready?"

The loud voice at the door brought Dean from his thoughts and his head snapped up to see his father stride forwards. Dean stood to meet him from his position on a lone chair by his packed duffel bag. Shrugging his leather coat tightly around himself, as a sudden cold drift met him; he bent down to pick up his bag.

"Let's go," he said firmly, only giving his father a small smile before striding quickly past his made bed and towards the open door.

"Wait," John grabbed him by the wrist and forcibly turned him around. "About the Impala…"

Dean swallowed. He had carefully been trying to avoid the subject of his beloved car. He knew what must have happened to the black beauty, but to hear it aloud would just be the icing of a perfectly screwed up cake.

"Yeah, I know," Dean muttered, feeling his duffel bag somehow gain an incredible amount of weight. "Totalled, right?"

John nodded dismally. "Yeah, sorry son," he replied, but almost instantly, a grin began to play on his lips. "But when I got out of the hospital a while back I took it down to the mechanics, see what he could do…" He paused as he watched Dean's face lighten in an anticipation John knew he couldn't deny.

"_And_?" Dean encouraged.

"_And_ the old girl is nearly good as new," John laughed, watching Dean smile, the first real smile he had given in days. "Another week should do it, maybe two and she's yours again. It's not going to be on the road straight away, so I thought that maybe we could save some money and you go ahead and work on it yourself."

Dean's bottom lip effectively reached the floor as he gaped at his father. "Aw, man," he breathed, dropping his duffel bag on the floor and wrapping his arms around his father, encasing him in a tight hug. "Thanks, dad."

John patted his son's back almost awkwardly before he felt Dean let go.

"_Finally_ something is going right," Dean said happily, running a hand through his hair as though trying to soothe his racing mind.

John nodded his agreement. _Yes, _he thought. _Something _was _finally going right._

"Sam's checking you out now," was what John said. "And he's picking up your prescription from Barton personally."

Dean raised an eyebrow as he slowly bent down to lift his duffel bag again. "Handing in those papers, right?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"That one will be one hell of a lawyer," John grumbled, and Dean couldn't help but agree, even if he silently wished otherwise.

They walked silently out of the hospital room, making a slow progress, due to Dean's still somewhat unsteady legs, down to the ground floor. They took a quiet ride down the elevator, accompanied by an elderly man in a wheelchair and a nurse that kept firing Dean smiles, then instantly blushing furiously. When they did reach the ground floor, however, it was to meet Sam rushing up to them, a great smile on his face and a bulky wad of cash in the hand which was not clutching onto his cane. Upon seeing the money being waved around ostentatiously, John hurried towards his youngest, hitting him on the head once he reached the youngest Winchester.

"What are you thinking Sam?" he asked, grabbing the cash and shoving it into his pocket. "You want people to think you've robbed a bank?"

Sam snorted, but otherwise remained silent, his face tinged pink.

"You didn't complain, did you?" Dean asked warily, narrowing his eyes, referring to Sam's earlier intention to file a complaint against Arden.

Sam shook his head. "No," he said truthfully. "I was going to, though, then they handed me two hundred for finding out a criminal."

"Half of that is rightfully mine," Dean objected. "I spent over a month in hospital being probed by a man that hadn't even seen a toe before."

John grunted and started off to the exit, his sons trailing behind. "You were hardly being probed," he drawled. "Sammy, did you get Dean's script?" he asked as the three stepped into the brilliant afternoon sunlight and started walking through the carport.

Sam patted the pocket of his jeans and a crinkled noise sounded out to them. "Yeah," he said. "We can stop at the pharmacy, if you like."

"That's probably the be-"

Dean cleared his throat loudly. "I'm still here," he said angrily as he spotted John's pickup, whole tyres and all, parked snugly between a sports car and a van. "You _can _talk to me, you know. I'm not unapproachable."

Sam laughed. "I beg to differ."

"I'm serious here, Sammy," Dean said heatedly. "I have something that's not going away, but that doesn't make me any different," he chose to ignore John's smirk as they reached the pickup. "So, if you decide to try and pamper me, you're going to be very sorry."

"Was that a threat?" Sam asked, taking Dean's bag and throwing it in the back, along with his own cane.

John cleared his throat, an eyebrow raised. "Are we ready princesses?" he asked, pulling open the driver's seat door and jumping in.

Dean motioned for Sam to enter the pickup and when the youngest did just that, Dean slid in after him, sighing heavily.

oOoOoOo

An hour later, Dean sat in between his father and younger brother in the pickup as he held a pharmacy bag in his lap.

"So where is this motel?" Dean asked, stifling a yawn and moving his feet around to avoid possible stiffness.

"Across town," John replied, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he glanced at his eldest.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Why so far away?" he asked confusedly.

"It was the only motel we could find with three single beds in a room," Sam replied simply.

Dean's face reddened. "Uh," was all he managed, trying desperately to sink into the back of his seat.

Clearing his throat loudly, Dean brought himself to thoughts that he had been dwelling upon, but had never voiced till that moment. "So, what happened to the Colt?" he asked almost conversationally, shoving Sam's arm aside so he had more room. "It was locked in the trunk right?"

Sam nodded. "Right," he agreed.

Dean waited for an elaboration, but when none came, he turned on his younger brother. "And?" he asked impatiently. "You can't just stop there, dude."

John sighed as he turned a corner and set off down a desolate road. "The Colt was with all the other weaponry. When we were basically demolished by that son-of-a-bitch, it took Bobby less time to get his ass to us than the cops."

Dean furrowed his brow. "How the hell did he manage that?" he asked, turning back towards his father. "Was he following us or something?"

John laughed. "Bobby's a bit too lazy for the whole under cover stalker thing," he chuckled. "No. Word gets out pretty fast when you're a hunter. He grabbed the guns and the Colt and ran off."

"He _left _us there?" Dean demanded angrily.

"He pulled us out first," Sam explained, cricking his neck. "Left us on the ground for the paramedics and took off."

"Couldn't blame him really," John muttered, but his voice was dark. "How can you take three bloodied bodies to the hospital and avoid dodgy questions?"

Dean shrugged, but stopped instantly when he realised that would send him through courses of pain.

"But did you get it off Bobby?" Dean asked.

"Sure," Sam replied, blinking furiously as the afternoon sun suddenly shined directly into his eyes through the windshield. "And the rest. He was a bit reluctant at first, though."

"A bit reluctant is an understatement," John growled before squinting out the window. "Ah, finally we're here."

Dean squinted out the window and spotted a small motel sitting on a sparse piece of land. It was nothing flashy, but then again, none of the motels they had ever spent a night in were.

"What about the truck driver?" Dean's questioning continued relentlessly.

"On trial, the poor bastard," John said, pulling into the motel and parking. "Tried to get him off, but apparently road rage is out of our hands."

"Hm," Dean replied, staring straight ahead, out the window and towards the motel room John had parked the pickup in front of. His mind raced through the many times he, Sam and John had shared a motel room together. It seemed like such a long time ago. In the earlier days, they had started sleeping in the one room, Sam and Dean sharing a bed when they were without the realisation that how they slept would be considered a big no-no in the school grounds. As they grew, they either started renting two rooms, either Dean sharing with Sam or John sharing with Sam, or they rented the one room, with one of the Winchester boys, usually Dean, camping out on the floor. On good days, nights would begin with an action packed movie, lots of laughs and good times to be remembered. On bad days, nights would begin with the upset stomach, with the puke and blood and occasionally, the slip into unconsciousness. But, despite the negatives, the positives always conquered, leaving Dean wanting more with each new year. It was fun to him. He didn't need a push-up bra wife or snotty kids running around the place to say that he had a family of his own, that he had a home to go to each day. In reality, John and Sam were his family; they were the home he went to each day. That was Dean's reality, right up to the day it was shattered with a one page letter. Dean's reality was shattered the day Sam's face lit into one of the truest smiles Dean ever remembered on his face.

"Goddamit, Dean!" John's growl snapped Dean from his thoughts and he found himself alone in the pickup.

Dean watched from the windshield as Sam opened the door to the motel room and stepped in. Turning his head to the side, Dean found his father glaring up at him from the outside, waving a hand in front of him.

"Huh?" Dean grunted.

"Get the hell out of the pickup, you fool," John barked, his right hand occupied by Dean's duffel bag.

"Right," Dean mumbled, wondering how he could have missed both his brother and father exiting the pickup and leaving him inside with just the pharmacy bag for company.

Lowering himself gently to the ground, he shot his father an annoyed look before heading towards the motel room.

oOoOoOo

"Tomorrow afternoon," Sam announced from his position on the bed.

Dean looked over at him warily. "Tomorrow afternoon what?" he asked, ignoring the clicking and clacking of guns as John sat on his own bed, running through their pile of weaponry they had retrieved from Bobby.

"Tomorrow afternoon I get to go back to the hospital," Sam replied sourly.

"Hoorah for you," John replied, taking out bullets from a rifle.

"What for?" Dean asked worriedly, but grabbing the remote for the TV, more as a distraction than anything.

"Physio," Sam replied, patting his stiff leg half-heartedly. "It's a lot better than it used to be, I'll tell you, but it still needs work. They think that maybe in a week's time it'll be alright. And I'm finally gonna be able to take this thing off," he pointed to the bandage on his head with a sour expression. "Maybe people will stop giving me pitying looks now."

Dean smiled. "That's great."

"Yeah, you better be doing some damn progress," John hollered. "I want to get a move on with the demon hunting thing, or have you forgotten?"

Dean snorted and turned towards the TV, pressing the button on the remote control, bringing the television to life. At once, a woman with a large smile and white-blonde hair appeared on the screen, enthusiastically chatting about a show dog.

"Is it six already?" Sam asked, glancing at his watch and back at the TV absently. "Huh."

Dean moved stiffly on his bed so that he was lying upon it. He tried to ignore the ache coursing through his body and the way he had to swallow too many times than normal to try and moisten his throat. He tried to ignore the way his eyes felt too heavy for his lids and the way his forehead prickled uncomfortably. Instead, he focused on the smiling woman on the TV screen, her too white teeth almost urging Dean to pick up a toothbrush. He tried to focus on her energy as she spoke about a man who invented some sort of vaccine for something or other. He almost envied the way she nodded and laughed to the weatherman without wincing, without crying out in pain.

"Bobby's coming over tomorrow," John announced, not meeting his sons in the eye.

"Dad, tomorrow afternoon I need a lift to the hospital," Sam objected. "You don't expect me to drive with this leg, do you?"

John shrugged. "Take a bus," he suggested absently. "I'm not leaving Bobby here alone, he'd probably steal something. And he hates the hospital."

Dean propped himself on his elbows. "I'll take Sammy," he offered. "I'll drive him to the hospital."

John glanced over at Dean, looking him over, assessing him, Dean realised. It made Dean uncomfortable and his first instinct was to turn away, but he had learnt too much from Sammy in the past year to repeat himself, so he stared his father in the eye, unwavering.

"If you think you're up to it, then by all means," John said, turning back to his guns.

Dean grinned broadly, content with our things were turning out for him as far, but his bliss was short-lived, however, when he turned back to the TV screen and was met with an all too familiar face.

Blonde hair and smiling up at him from a still photograph, someone he thought he would never have to meet again, stared straight up at him. Grabbing at the remote and turning up the volume at a level that made John bark for Dean to turn it back down again, Dean watched soundlessly as Meg Masters was introduced to the world, but not for the first time, as it were.

"The body of the young man and woman found dead just last month have finally been identified," the newsreader now had a sombre expression, any traces of a smile extinct. "Family from both individuals have come forward to identify the bodies. The woman was identified as twenty-four year old Meg Masters, a college student who was reported missing over six months ago."

The newsreader's face was replaced by Dean's second victim and he suddenly realised, with impending guilt, that he had never discovered the name of the young man he had killed, the same young man that stared, almost hatefully, up at him.

But before he could blink a second time, the newsreader's face was back. "The twenty-nine year old man was identified as Eric McLaughlin. The police released this statement earlier today."

Dean felt Sam move onto the bed next to him and make a stealthy move towards the remote still clutched in Dean's hand, but Dean would have none of that and moved his hand as far as possible away from Sam.

On the television screen, a stout policeman with greying hair and a bushy moustache stood behind a podium, lights flashing in the background signalled the presence of photographers. When the policeman twitched his lips, his moustache wiggling along, Dean couldn't help but be reminded of the Monopoly Man.

"The murders of the two individuals earlier last month are, at the moment, being investigated," the policeman began. "As far, there is no immediate connection between the two murders. Both individuals come from different backgrounds, different neighbourhoods, and different states. They didn't know each other and they hadn't interacted in any way, as far as we can tell. Their murders were in two different states and the murderers used two different instruments for the killings. As I said, there is no immediate connection," the policeman paused, grimacing into the camera. "And the only connection I believe there possibly could be is the fact that these are horrific killings, made by a truly disturbed character. I have no doubt in believing that we will catch this person. We will get justice, and the families will have some peace."

The newswoman's grim expression was back on screen, passionately agreeing with the policeman that, yes, the murderer-Dean-was a truly disturbed character. Feeling a lump in his throat he knew shouldn't be there, Dean let Sam successfully snatch the remote from his clutched hand and switch off the television. The silence in the room was almost deafening and Dean suddenly realised the clacking of his father's guns had stopped. Feeling two pairs of eyes on him, he cleared his throat and forced his eyes away from the TV, standing up and muttering something about a shower. Stumbling into the bathroom and locking the door behind him before another word was spoken, Dean tried to ignore the images entering his mind. He saw Meg, head down, tied to the chair, blood dripping slowly from her mouth. He saw her eyes look up at him lifelessly as she lay dead on the floor. He saw the bullet enter the young man's head and he saw the blood splatter everywhere, almost slowly, in a dramatic affect. He saw the young man hit the ground and lie in his own blood; his head wound dripping blood every second. Dean could almost hear as each splatter of blood hit the ground…

_Splat_

_Splat_

_Splat_

Dean stared around the bathroom helplessly, hearing soft whispers coming from the other side of the door. He stepped towards the mirror and ignored the caressing feeling of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat.

oOoOoOo

**A/N: **I don't think that about Yoga, I swear! I do Yoga myself! Lol…So what do you think?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Gah! I haven't updated in a while, mainly because my dear old computer crashed and partly because I'm just lazy. Thanks to all the reviewers! I didn't reply to anyone because…well you know why:D This chapter is a bit rushed and I think it's obvious by the way it's written…LOL

oOoOoOo

Dean's first night away from the hospital since the accident, went more smoothly than expected. Dean assumed there would be nightmares, though he rarely had any, and he assumed he would wake up in a fit, his father and brother standing over him, asking him if he was alright.

Dean started to doubt he even had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. He considered maybe he had been diagnosed incorrectly, that maybe he didn't even have anything and that it was just a temporary result of the accident. Sam had a busted leg, a physical consequence, maybe Dean was just imagining being tired, and maybe he was just imagining the muscle pain, the joint pain, the sore throat and the severe headaches. Maybe it's just a psychological consequence. He'd just have to tough it out.

Dean turned his head from his position on the motel room chair, silently searching the bare motel room for his cell phone.

"Dammit," he muttered when his search didn't turn up anything. Bracing himself against the back of the chair, he levelled himself upwards to stand. "Where the hell did I put that thing?" he muttered angrily, travelling towards his bed from the other side of the room.

Sitting down upon it slowly, taking mind to the steady ache in his legs, he bent forward and reached down to grab his duffel bag at the foot of the bed. While his seemingly hopeless search through his duffel bag continued, the door banged open and Sam and John entered both red in the face, followed by an average sized man with a greying beard and moustache.

"Bobby," Dean greeted, dropping the bag onto his feet and jumping up to shake the hunter's hand. "How're you?"

Bobby grimaced as he looked Dean up and down. "I should be asking you that," he pointed out, positioning the hat on his head so that he could see properly. "Being in an accident and all. Your daddy told me about this sleepy thing you have."

Dean glanced fleetingly at his father, whose reddened face stared right back at him, challenging him.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, turning back to Bobby. "Load of crap, if you ask me," he said confidently. "Never felt better in my life."

Bobby smirked and swung his head back to John. "So, Winchester, you want to do this or what?" he asked.

John averted Dean's gaze when he replied. "Sure, just as soon as Dean gives Sam a lift to the hospital," he grunted.

Dean cleared his throat. "What's this?" he asked curiously, looking between John and Bobby.

"Let your daddy explain later," Bobby replied, turning away from all three Winchesters and heading towards Dean's abandoned chair.

Dean continued to stare at his father in what he hoped to be penetrating, but whether his father noticed or not, Dean was none the wiser.

"We need to go now, if we want to make my appointment," Sam piped up, looking at Dean pointedly.

"Right," Dean nodded, forcing his eyes towards Sam. "Y'know where my cell is?" he asked.

Sam felt in his pocket before retrieving a black cell phone. Handing it over to Dean, Sam grimaced noticeably.

"You leant it to me this morning, remember?" he said, his brow furrowed in concern.

Dean scanned his mind quickly, trying to remember indeed that had happened, or if Sam was yanking his chain.

"Right," he concluded, not really remembering anything, but needing to believe that it was just a coincidence.

Sam turned on his heel and made towards the door, opening it and leaving the cramped motel room. Dean opened his hand in front of John, signalling for his father to hand him the keys to the pickup. John thrust his hand in his front pocket, retrieving the keys and handing them to his son, a small smile evident in his eyes. Dean didn't smile back.

When Dean reached the pickup, Sam was already in the passenger seat, watching Dean carefully through the windshield as he climbed into the pickup. They sat silently side by side, almost uncomfortably before Dean broke the silence as he turned the ignition. Pulling out of the motel, he couldn't help but glance sideways at his brother, only to find that Sam was glancing right back at him.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "What's up with dad?" he asked, shifting slightly as he brought the truck onto the road.

"I dunno," Sam replied, shrugging. "They weren't talking much outside when Bobby arrived."

"You looked angry," Dean pointed out, remembering John and Sam's reddened face when they had first entered.

Sam shook his head, blowing out a great huff of air and turning his head away from Dean so that he was looking out the passenger side window.

"It's nothing," he muttered and Dean could tell that it definitely wasn't nothing and had to be something, but he didn't have to wait long to find out. "Alright, alright," Sam exclaimed, as if he were forced into telling all. "He suggested we leave you here for a while, you know, and get a move on with the whole demon hunting scenario."

Dean nodded, not agreeing, just understanding. He felt his insides freeze, because he knew why Bobby had made such a suggestion. Bobby thought that he couldn't handle the demon hunting business anymore, that he was soft and that he couldn't be trusted. Dean hadn't always been a big fan of the man; in fact, sometimes he wished he had never met him. The number of threats he had made against John was unimaginable. The man was just plain grumpy.

"Right," Dean said, his eyes fixed on the road. "And what did dad say?" he asked, his mind itching for an answer.

Sam smiled softly as he turned back to face Dean. "He said we're 'doing this as a family'," he said it almost proudly; almost unbelieving that John was capable of saying something so sentimental.

"Huh," Dean said, but inside he was jumping. "Right."

oOoOoOo

John stared fiercely at the man before him, glaring angrily as he spoke about John's son as though he were merely just another inconvenience in their lives.

"Listen, John," Bobby said, standing from his chair and looked over at the eldest Winchester. "Dean's a good boy, a good hunter, no one's denying that. But you said it yourself, the boy's not himself," Bobby reasoned. "I could see that he's clearly struggling. He walks like the dead, he's pale and pasty. John, the boy's hunting days are over."

John growled. "Bobby, he's only twenty-seven, he's got plenty of mileage left for the road," John said, running a hand through his hair, clearly stressed. "I promised both him and Sam. We hunt together as a family. I'm not leaving him behind."

"The demon has left the town, Winchester," Bobby's voice rose in anger. "Don't you think he knows about Dean? He knows everything and he wants revenge on the boy for killing his children. You take Dean with you and it's the last time you'll see him alive, I guarantee you."

"He's much safer where Sam and I can protect him," John spat. "He's much safer with us next door to the demon than by himself at the other end of the country."

Bobby stepped closer to John, an eyebrow cocked. "Then don't leave him by himself, if you're so worried," he said.

John's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are you suggesting, Bob?" he snapped, grabbing Bobby by the collar and bringing him up so that their noses were nearly touching. "What are you trying to say?"

Bobby smirked condescendingly. "If he's a nuisance, I would put him in a home or something. Get someone to _protect _him, if you will."

"A _home_?" John snarled, shaking Bobby from his collar. "He's twenty-seven not _eighty_-seven."

Bobby's eyes sparked with rage. "Listen Winchester," he scowled. "You and your damn sons have cost us Jim, Elkins _and _Caleb, so you best-"

John gave off a deep growl and pushed Bobby up against a wall. "If I hear a sentence with 'your damn sons' in it again, I _will _kill you Bobby."

Bobby frowned shifting slightly against the wall, finding it hard with John's fists still clutching his collar fiercely. "He's not himself, John," he said softly. "You bring him with you and you're only going to get trouble."

John nodded. "Then that's what I want," he barely whispered, letting Bobby go and stepping back.

"I'll spar with him," Bobby offered, fixing up his shirt and retaking his seat. "I'll test him out. Maybe I've got it wrong. Maybe I'm overreacting."

John sighed and rubbed his face. "I'd rather you didn't," he said hollowly. "He's not some kind of experiment."

"I never he said he was," Bobby retorted, bringing up his hands before him. "Just so we know what his strength is."

John shrugged, but remained silent thinking deeply, his mind wandering to his eldest son's face.

oOoOoOo

Dean tapped his foot in rhythm as he waited patiently outside the rehab room where Sam had disappeared into. He looked down at his right hand which sported a large scar, stretching from just below his middle finger to his wrist. This scar, he knew, would never fade. This scar, he knew, would be a constant reminder of what he had gone through. Tracing it with his fingers, Dean drew in a deep breath as he felt a wave of nausea reach him. He hated knowing that this scar would haunt him, but in some twisted way, he was grateful that it would. It was a reminder of a failure he knew he could never repeat.

"Dean?"

The steady voice broke him from his thoughts and Dean brought his eyes up to meet an approaching figure. His vision somewhat blurry, Dean blinked to clear it, when Barton's cheerful face met his eyes.

"Dr. Barton?" Dean stood to address the doctor. "Hey, how are you?"

Barton nodded and smiled broadly. "I'm good. Didn't expect you to be back. Missed the food?" he laughed.

Dean chuckled. "Hardly," he said honestly. "Sammy's in rehab. I gave him a lift."

Barton frowned. "You drove here?" he asked. "I hardly think that's wise in your condition."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Well how else was he supposed to get here?" he asked. "It's just a little scratch."

"I wasn't talking about your chest Dean," Barton said. "What if you had tired while you were driving?"

Dean scowled. "I'm not here to get my health reviewed, thanks doc," Dean replied, returning to his seat and looking down at his hand again.

Dean heard Barton sigh loudly and take a seat down next to him. "You know, maybe accepting it will help you deal with the problem," Barton suggested.

"You're a shrink now too?" Dean said sarcastically.

Barton chuckled. "No," he said mildly. "But I am trying to help you."

Dean looked back up at Barton haughtily. "I drove here, I walked through that door and I sat down. I'm still alive," he smiled. "Where's my reward?"

"You need to understand that this cannot go on," Barton replied bluntly. "You can't keep up this charade. You are not invincible. This illness will tire you down."

Dean growled. "You know what?" Dean's face was a picture of rage. "I don't think I like you very much. So can you go off now and heal an infected finger or something."

"Huh," Barton grunted, standing up without another word and striding off down the corridor.

Dean buried his face into his hands, breathing deeply and wondering if life ever stopped throwing nasties at him.

"Well, I'm free," Sam's voice penetrated through Dean's thoughts and when he lifted his head he saw a jubilant Sam, his arms outstretched, standing on his own, cane-free.

Dean jumped up, taking no heed to his stiff legs. "It's about damn time," he replied, his laughter echoing in the corridor. "Thought you might have fallen down."

Sam laughed. "I'm as good as ever," and to prove his point, he did a little skip. "Let's get out of here. It's depressing."

Sam led the way to the exit of the hospital. Dean hated the walk out, passing people in wheelchairs and people leaning heavily on canes. One teenage girl he passed was missing an arm while a middle aged man had blemishes all over his face.

Dean and Sam reached the pickup soon after their departure, both in high spirits. Sam sat comfortably in the passenger's seat while Dean took the seat behind the wheel.

"I feel like walking back to the motel," Sam laughed, shaking his leg in excitement.

"Be my guest," Dean nodded towards the door and smiled. "But I'm taking the pickup, much more efficient."

"You mean you're lazy," Sam corrected.

Dean nodded and turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. "Yeah," he said bluntly, grinning at Sam and reversing out of park.

They were soon on the road and making a steady progress towards their motel. Dean's mind wandered to Bobby as he continued to drive. What right did the man have to come in and decide what the Winchesters should do and how they should go about on their hunting duties. This was their mission, not his. It was their decision, not his. It was Dean's life, not his. As far as Dean was concerned, nobody had a right to decide how Dean lived his life or which fights Dean fought in. If Dean decided that he would be in the fight against the demon, then not even the great John Winchester could stop him. And there was still some doubt as to whether he was actually sick. Not once had he woken up with night chills or sweats. Truth be told, he did feel slightly tired and he did have aches, he did have headaches and a sore throat, but that all could be fixed with a good night sleep and a couple of pills. Right?

Dean had always been tired. He'd been tired the day his mother was found pinned above little Sammy's crib. He'd been tired the day his father told him that his life would now include demons, werewolves and wendigos. He'd been tired the day Sam came home from school and announced that he had been chosen for the basketball team, only to realise that they had to leave the state the next day. He'd been tired when his first girlfriend asked him when they would seal the deal and he had replied that he could never stay to be her boyfriend. He was tired the day he found himself pinned against the wall with his father jeering at him, his eyes showing nothing but hatred. What was the difference from the tiredness he felt all those times and the tiredness he felt now?

"_Dean!_"

Dean's eyes snapped open just in time to see Sam's terrified face and the feeling of being airborne. The next second, he was surrounded by a muddy plain.

"Dean?" Sam's horrified voice reached him and Dean knew his eyes had shuttered closed again. "Oh God, Dean."

Dean felt soft fingers brush his neck and land on his pulse. They rested there for a minute before they left. Dean was confused, unable to understand what exactly had happened and why. Why couldn't he seem to open his eyes? Dean wondered why Sam sounded frightened and suddenly panic filled Dean. What if Sammy was hurt?

"Dean, you're alright," Sam's voice sounded much calmer and Dean could hear him twist in his seat. "Dean, we got to get out of here. Dad is going to kill us."

Something in Dean stirred as Sam let out this new piece of information. 'Dad is going to kill us' translated into 'Dad is going to kill Dean' and the eldest sibling knew that he couldn't let John be any more disappointed in Dean than he already was.

It would take a lot for Dean to admit so, but a large amount of energy was put into forcing his heavy weighted eyes open. His lids felt almost like cement and his eyes stung from the incoming light. Blinking furiously, adjusting to the light slowly, his first movement was towards Sam, grabbing almost blindly for his arm and shaking it.

"Are you alright?" he rasped, his throat burning.

Sam flinched in his shock, disbelieving that Dean could have woken, so suddenly.

"I should be asking you that," Sam snapped, his hand laying on Dean's own, still gripping Sam's arm strongly. "What the hell happened, Dean?" he asked fiercely.

Dean let go of Sam's arm and shook off his hand. Looking around, Dean noted the short distance from the road to where they now sat in the pickup. The mud that sat around them gave Dean a good indication of how deep the pickup had sunk through. Dean turned back to his younger brother, not at all proud with this new situation he had created.

"I dunno," he mumbled, almost shamefully. "I guess I wasn't concentrating."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "I can get us out," he said simply, opening the passenger side door and stepping out swiftly.

Dean waited almost patiently as Sam circled round the back of the pickup and towards the driver's side door. He only pushed open the door when Sam tapped on the window.

"You can't drive," Dean pointed to Sam's still somewhat stiff leg. "You're not fully healed."

"So what do you expect me to do?" Sam snarled his anger evident. "Let you drive and fall asleep again at the wheel?"

Dean frowned. "You know what, I'm not too crazy about this smartass attitude you've got going on," Dean, nevertheless, stepped out of the pickup and into the mud below. "Listen, Sam, it was just an accident."

Sam climbed into the pickup and shut the door, facing the front, his face grim and tight. Dean turned around and, holding his side, he limped slowly around to the passenger side door. Sliding in, he turned his eyes on Sam, trying to ignore the way the youngest Winchester's frown only became more pronounced.

"You're worrying me, Dean," Sam said, his hands gripping the wheel firmly, still facing the front. His hard, angry expression softened slightly, but he still averted Dean's gaze. "You fell asleep, you weren't distracted, so don't bullshit."

"I'm fine," Dean snapped, feeling his anxiety incline.

"Dammit it, Dean, you're not fine," Sam banged in hands on the steering wheel and Dean could honestly say that he was just a bit frightened of his younger brother. "And don't tell me to stop the crying or whatever because you and I both know that I'm right. I had to push your foot on the brakes, you idiot," Sam continued to rage, still adamantly staring anywhere but at Dean. "And what would have happened if I wasn't here? I'll tell you what. You'd have died, Dean. You would have crashed and died."

Sam gripped the steering wheel even tighter, panting hard and shivering slightly, either from rage or worry, Dean couldn't tell. Dean sat silently, watching his brother carefully before trying once more to press his luck.

"It's probably just some freak thing," he shrugged, watching as a vein bulged above Sam's eyebrow. "It's probably never going to happen again."

Sam finally turned to face Dean, his eyes shining suspiciously and his nose and ears tinged pink.

"It's not just some freak thing," Sam spat. "What you have is _chronic_. It's constant and ever-going. It's never going away and I think you should accept that. Some of the things you could do before, you can't do it at the same rate or capacity." Sam sighed and put his face in his hands. Dean had the sudden, unmistakeable urge to wrap his arms around Sam, but he resisted.

"It'll be alright, Sammy," Dean said in what he considered to be a soothing voice.

Sam's head snapped back up and he glared dangerously at Dean. "No it won't Dean," he said. "First you get electrocuted, then you get sliced and diced courtesy of dad, and then I created a shocking car accident and now this? What's next? You get stuck in a hurricane? No, no, no, I can beat that. You get testicular cancer."

Dean fidgeted uncomfortably. "Hey, watch what you say there, buddy."

"The point is," Sam continued. "I'm worried and not the kind of worry that's going away whenever you say that you're _fine_."

Dean nodded his understanding and patted Sam's arm gently. "I'm the older brother," he said softly, almost cringing at how pathetic he must sound. "How about you let me worry? It's much less stressful that way."

Sam chuckled softly and turned straight, starting up the car again. "To be honest with you, I wish I could swap places with you, you know? It just seems like you need a bit of a break."

"Nah," Dean smiled. "Life is full of challenges, right?"

Sam glanced fleetingly at Dean before forcing the car out of the mud with a lurching sound. It didn't take too long before they hit the road again.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, twisting his head to look through the car's back window. "You're going back into town."

"Well you don't want dad to see the car all muddy do you?" Sam grinned, pressing his foot down on the accelerator.

oOoOoOo

John paced nervously; trying to ignore Bobby's tut, tut tutting. His anxiety over the upcoming spar between an unbeknownst Dean and Bobby made John edge ever so slowly towards the bathroom where the toilet was on standby.

"If he gets sick on you, I'm not cleaning it up Bobby," John snapped out of nerves to Bobby.

"If you've already forgotten, Winchester," Bobby snarled menacingly, "but the boy had a violent case of diarrhoea when he was sixteen. Not a pretty picture, but I cleaned it up."

John turned away from the hunter again, rolling his eyes. "And that gives you bragging rights does it?" he muttered snidely returning to his pacing.

A low rumbling noise brought both men to the window. Shoving each other like little boys for a better view. John smiled softly as he made out Sam and Dean in the pickup truck, Sam behind the wheel and Dean chuckling next to him, the sun gleaming off the pickup's too shiny surface. John was sure his car hadn't been that shiny when he had given it to them for the loan.

"Why is Sam driving?" Bobby asked as the boy parked the car. "I thought he had a busted leg."

John shrugged and stepped back as the boys jumped out of the pickup. "Must be better than we thought," he suggested.

Bobby stepped back from the window a second before Dean and Sam stumbled into the motel room, both wearing large grins, Dean's a bit cheekier than usual. Without a word of welcome, John strode over to Sam and grabbed the pickup's keys clutched in his hand. Smirking at his son, John stepped back beside Bobby and waited for one of his sons to speak up first.

"Well, we're back," Sam said as Dean stalked past both John and Bobby to his bed. "Missed us?"

"How's your leg?" John asked, pointing to Sam's once crooked leg. "I saw you driving the pickup."

Sam's glance at Dean was so quick that John almost missed it. Almost.

"Its fine," Sam shrugged, avoiding his father's gaze and heading over to the table where his laptop sat. "I had to practically wrench the keys out of Dean's hands, but I got my first drive in a while."

John could tell, without a doubt in his mind that Sam had tried to make an emphasis on that one sentence.

"Right," Bobby cleared his throat and turned towards the eldest Winchester sibling. "So, Dean, how are you feeling?"

Dean positioned himself more comfortably on the bed and cocked an eyebrow at Bobby.

"I'm fine," he said slowly, carefully, suspicious of where this was going.

"Good, good," Bobby replied, taking a seat by Sam while John took one on his own bed. "What do you say we relive old times, buddy?"

Dean furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

"You wanna spar?" Bobby asked bluntly as though to make it easier for Dean.

Dean's eyes widened slightly. "No thanks," he said, glancing briefly at his father as though asking for permission.

John kept his gaze down; trying to ignore the way Dean's voices was slightly hitched and trembly. John knew Dean was hesitant to do anything that required physical strength, just yet, until he knew himself how far he can go.

"Why not?" Bobby asked, ignoring Sam's strange sounds of protest. "Tired, are you?"

John knew the second the words flew out of Bobby's mouth that Dean would fight back, that he would accept the offer. And, sadly, he was right.

"You know what?" Dean stood up, a defiant expression plastered to his face. "I think I'm going to take you up on your offer."

Sam's groan resonated around the small room and John's was soon to follow.

"Don't be an idiot, Dean," Sam snapped, pushing away his laptop in frustration. "You know you're not up to it." The look that Sam gave Dean was unmistakeable, a silent reminder of the incident that occurred just an hour prior.

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean said, shooting Sam a steely glance.

"I think you should listen to Sam, Dean," John intervened. "I don't think you're up to it just yet."

Bobby cleared his throat and stood up. "I think you should let the boy do what he wants, Winchester," he said. "He is twenty-seven. I'm pretty sure he can make up his own mind."

"Where d'you wanna do this?" Dean asked.

"I've rented out an apartment a few blocks down," Bobby said, ignoring John's steely glare. "Your family won't be there."

"Like hell I won't," John snapped. "You think I'm going to leave my son alone with you? Might pull out a knife on him, you will."

"Dad, chill," Dean sighed. "It'll be cool."

John gave Bobby a dirty look. "Sure it will," he muttered darkly.

oOoOoOo

Dean stood opposite Bobby in his jeans and singlet top in Bobby's rented apartment. Furniture was pushed against walls to make enough room for a spar. Bobby had a small smirk on his face as he carefully watched Dean's slightly sluggish movements. Dean knew Bobby thought that he had one over Dean and he was probably right, being more energised, less tired and all, but Dean knew that it had to be more than physical strength and Bobby wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the box.

"You ready, Deano?" Bobby sneered, his face a mask of satisfaction.

"Hell yeah," Dean replied with a mirroring expression.

"Just so you know, Winchester," Bobby continued as though Dean hadn't spoken. "I'm not paying to clean up any blood or vomit that ends up on this floor."

"Well, seeing how it'll be yours, I don't see how you're gonna have any choice," Dean fired back.

"You're a cocky one, ain't ya?" Bobby snarled. "Let's see how cocky you'll be after I finish you."

Dean smirked and waited for Bobby to make the first move. This was how it used to be when Dean was younger and he had sparred with Bobby. He would always let Bobby have the first punch, because, even from just the beginning, Dean knew where Bobby would be heading with it. The man was so predictable. Bobby didn't disappoint the Winchester and took the first step towards Dean and then another until they were barely an arm length away. Bobby pulled back his arm and almost like lightening, pushed it through the air until it connected with Dean's jaw.

Dean thought he could have stopped the punch. He thought _he_ might have had one over Bobby at that point, but he was mistaken. He felt the fist connect with his jaw and it was agony. He couldn't remember ever feeling that kind of pain all those times he had them bar fights, but he felt it now. Dean knew there wouldn't be any blood just yet, but he almost wished there were just for the sake of getting rid of the pain.

"Is…is that all you've got?" Dean wheezed, repositioning himself upright and stepping back from Bobby.

"Listen, Dean," Bobby's face was suddenly free of self satisfaction and sneers. "Maybe we should just stop it there. I mean, you don't look too good."

Dean caught his reflection in the window opposite him and admitted that Bobby had more than just a fair point. Dean's jaw was slowly showing a purple bruise that Dean wouldn't fancy sleeping on.

"Scared you might lose?" Dean jeered, swinging his head back to Bobby, choosing to ignore the soft voice in his head telling him to stop. He did feel drained after all.

Bobby snarled. "Let's do this, then," he spat, lunging again.

Dean saw it coming before it happened. He sidestepped Bobby and stuck a foot out. Bobby tripped and tumbled to the ground, panting heavily. Dean took the opportunity of Bobby's struck figure and swung him by the feet onto his back. Dean then proceeded to elbow Bobby in the stomach and then swing his arm back to pelt Bobby in the face. This was all too much for the startled man as he began to bleed from the nose. He kicked Dean in the chest and jumped up, holding himself around the middle, still panting rapidly.

Dean stumbled back to the opposite wall and leant against it, trying to ignore the nausea that swelled inside him when Bobby's foot collided with his own chest. It wasn't until then that Dean could tell what his own strength was and it wasn't much. Not anymore. It used to take a lot more than a punch to the face and a kick in the chest to bring down the indestructible Dean Winchester. But Dean slowly came to the realisation that maybe he wasn't the same man he had been before that crash.

"Is that enough for you, Bobby?" Dean snarled.

"I've still got miles on me, kiddo," Bobby retorted back. "It's up to you, buddy."

Dean smirked, knowing that although he couldn't go any further, he couldn't show weakness in front of Bobby.

"Let's go," Dean grinned, although he wasn't really into the gesture.

Bobby raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise. He smirked condescendingly and took a step towards Dean. By the second step, Bobby was lying flat on the floor, his breathing coming out in gasping rasps. Dean stumbled forward, slightly envious of the man.

"You alright there, Bobby?" Dean asked, not really concerned, but having to show some sort of manners to the man that he'd known for twenty years.

"Fine, fine," Bobby drew in a deep breath, which Dean found a miracle seeing how his face was plastered to the floor.

Bobby propped himself up on his elbows and grinned somewhat shakily at Dean.

"You're better than I gave you credit for," he commented, shaking his head slowly. "Shouldn't have given you the advantage."

Dean grinned, lending a hand to pull him up. "You didn't give me any advantage," Dean replied proudly, patting his chest. "It's all Dean Winchester."

Dean helped Bobby to a chair and wished silently to himself that he had taken that chair instead.

"I'll give you a lift home," Bobby offered, attempting to stand up. "It's dark, and I don't think your daddy would appreciate you walking home by yourself in your condition."

Dean pushed Bobby back into the chair more roughly than was necessary. "I'll take a cab," he said, swallowing furiously, to get rid of the bile filling his mouth. "I'll see you later."

Dean turned on his heel and hurried out of the room as fast as possible and out of the apartment. When he reached the elevator for the ride down, he leant against the wall, suddenly wishing he had taken the stairs instead. And then he could hold it no longer. Bending down, he emptied his stomach, just as the elevator door opened. He heard a moan and a gagging sound that was not his own and then a hurried shuffle of feet.

When Dean had finished he sat down, pressing any button to close the elevator door once more, not quite sure why but knowing at the moment, he just couldn't return to his father and brother.

"This shouldn't be happening," he muttered darkly, shoving his face in his hands.

oOoOoOo

I know, not the best chapter ever, but it was rushed. Thanks for the reviews again guys!


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